


Too Little, Too Much

by AKnightOfAGoodKing



Series: Clan of the Bat [3]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Drama, Family, Forgiveness, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-01
Updated: 2017-05-01
Packaged: 2018-10-13 15:33:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 17,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10516620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AKnightOfAGoodKing/pseuds/AKnightOfAGoodKing
Summary: He was a man of walls, bricked too high to climb out of, and yet he was not alone. He was never alone, no matter if he was a grown man, father of five, or an eleven years old again. He simply needed a reminder.[DO NOT REPOST/REUSE MY WORK(S) WITHOUT MY ACKNOWLEDGEMENT AND PERMISSION]





	1. Blood Clot

When Bruce woke up, he was first greeted with a headache, a small one but painful nonetheless. His vision was groggy, but the blurs in his eyes quickly cleared up as he blinked them away. He heard muttering nearby, two of them, as they came closer, having heard him wake. 

“Master Bruce,” a familiar voice called out to him softly. It was Alfred, except Alfred was older with gray hairs streaking brown and noticeable wrinkles around his mouth and eyes. “How are you feeling, Master Bruce?” 

“You're old, Alfred,” Bruce answered, reaching to touch his head where it hurt. “Older than before.” 

The old butler smiled, stopping Bruce from touching the bruise on his oldest charge’s head. “Taking care of you, Master Bruce, certainly ages a person.” 

“Pennyworth, is he alright?” asked the boy around Bruce's age. 

Bruce didn't notice him until he spoke, finally taking in the colorful costume the other boy was wearing. Bruce also noted how the other boy looked familiar. If he had know, he would have thought the boy was his brother, eyes just as blue but with skin kissed by a desert sun for generations and small Eastern details perfectly sculpted on his features seen greatly in subtle light. 

“Who are you?” Bruce asked, confused as he tried to connect this familiarity to his memories, only to draw a mind block of some sort. But he knew there was something important between the two of them. 

The other boy frowned, looking up at Alfred, who simply nodded. “My name is Damian Wayne,” the boy answered, standing more properly in his introduction. 

“Wayne?” Bruce repeated, never been told that there was even another Wayne left in Gotham. “Are you my cousin?”

Damian frowned, crossing his arms. “Absolutely not. I'm your son.”

Bruce frowned, pursing his lips in even more confusion. He slowly sat up on the medical bed, observing that he was in a large cave, dim and cold. “You can't be my son,” he stated, flinching at a sudden head pain, but it quickly faded away. “I'm only eleven.”

“Well, Master Bruce,” Alfred slowly said, “you haven't been eleven for over twenty years. You have recently faced an  _ incident  _ that has caused you to regress back to this age. What's the last thing you remember?” 

Bruce frowned again, closing his eyes to think back. “Yesterday was the anniversary of their deaths,” he answered, eyes opened and lowered. His entire figure slumped forward slightly, taking a quiet breath in. “You made me Swedish desserts after dinner, and I went to bed early and fell asleep.”

“I remember that day,” Alfred said, solemn. 

“So is it true, Alfred?” Bruce asked, looking back up with a twinkle of sadness and glancing towards Domain. “He's my son?”

“Of course, I am,” Damian answered vocally as Alfred nodded with a reassuring smile. “There's not a better man to be my father than Bruce Wayne, the Batman.”

“The Batman?” Bruce asked curiously, thinking how that title seemed to fit him well. 

“Gotham’s superhero vigilante and protector, the Dark Knight,” Damian proclaimed proudly, “and I'm Robin, your partner and successor.”

“Wow,” Bruce said, eyes wide in amazement. “Is that really me? I became a hero?” He looked to Alfred for confirmation, and the butler nodded once.

“Of course,” Damian said as a matter-of-factly. “You're Bruce Wayne.”

The small twinkle of sadness in those blue eyes seemingly disappeared as a smile appeared. “I hope I made good choices then.”

Alfred gave his oldest charge a small smile as Damian glanced up to him uncertain. “You try, Master Bruce,” he said. “You try.”

Bruce noticed the soft tone in Alfred's words and the look the butler and Damian shared, but decided against asking any more on that matter. Maybe another time. He yawned. 

“It's getting late,” Alfred then said, helping Bruce off the medical bed. “It's time for you two to go to sleep. I'll contact Miss Zatanna tomorrow to come as see if she can tell us anything about this spell over you, Master Bruce. Do you suppose it would be a good idea to call the others to come over as well, Master Damian?” 

Damian clicked his tongue, crossing his arms. “The others?” Bruce asked as Alfred ushered him and Damian up the staircase. “What others? Do I have any more children? A wife?” He asked the last two questions incredulously. 

Alfred chuckled. “Not a wife, Master Bruce,” he said amused, “but you certainly have more children.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow in question. “I must get around often.”

Damian clicked his tongue again. “I'm the only one you had thought intercourse, Father,” he said, giving his young father a warning glare, “unless there are more that I don't know about. I hope that's not the case. I'm willing to get rid of any challenge to my blood right.”

“Master Damian,” Alfred softly scolded with a frowned. 

“I'd write you out of the will if you did that,” Bruce said seriously. “Absolutely no killing, whether it's for revenge or greed. No killing.”

Damian was quiet for a moment. “This is certainly Father,” he said simply as Alfred chuckled. Bruce was just confused. 

 

_ Zorro, the dim lighting of the theatre, the sudden cold air, stepping out into the dark alley, walking in the veins of Gotham like blood, a pool of blood of the two people could've done great things, unlike the other end of the gun with a poor man pulling the trigger, one pearl necklace breaking apart the rest of the world, the string draped over her paling throat like a slit, the broken glass of his watch, an eight year old standing over the bodies dead on the pavement, a ten year old still mourning their murder, a fifteen year old isolated with walls not built from wood, a twenty year old disappearing from the city that took so much from him, a twenty five year old returning in the form of the night.  _

_ And one feeling still remained throughout the years; once, Gotham was shot twice and lived, but he remained a blood clot. _

 

Bruce’s eyes shot open, staring into the darkness of the room. He was at the Manor, and his head ached, wondering what was going on. He didn't need to remind himself what had happened, a grown man reverted back to his childhood form. He just needed to sort out all the memories, memories that were his but not his yet. Little snippets were coming back to him, and each piece came with an emotion, sometimes light but a lot of them were intense. It didn't help that it seemed like they were trying to rush back at him, not giving him a moment to take it back in again. 

He got out of bed, quietly putting on a pair of slippers and a coat. Wordlessly, he left the room and walked through the hallways, down the stairs. Only Alfred and Damian were home, in bed as he was moments ago. He existed out the back garden door, and he let his feet carry him. They knew where to go. 

In the cold, quiet night, he saw their names, the years they were born, the date that they unfortunately shared. An angel of stone watched over them, and Bruce had never felt more, as he had for the last two years. 

But he didn't cry. He stopped crying, because there was no point. There was never was. He could cry a thousand pearls, and they would still be dead. Nothing could change that; nothing can wipe away the mistakes, the flaws, the regret. Why did he get to live but they didn't? 

At times, it seemed as if the questions were answered enough. 

He sat wordlessly against the slab of stone that depicted their names, dates, and a few words in remembrance of the kind of people they were, what they would never be forgotten as. Bruce closed his eyes, shivering against the cold night and closed his eyes, breathing in and out until he was unaware that he had fallen asleep. 


	2. Playing Father

When he awoke, the sun was rising over the horizon, a lazy yellow color bleeding into the sky. It was cold, the air, the ground, the stone grave at his back, and he was at peace. If this moment could last forever, he would let it, but only until he felt as if he was going to cry, a well of sadness overflowing in him. He felt like a small bottle carrying too much that it would spill. 

Wiping his eyes with the back of his sleeve, Bruce stood up and took one more look at his parents’ gave. He brushed his fingers over his mother’s name. 

Then he walked back to the Manor.

He wondered about his family, the one he had gained over the years. What did Alfred mean that he tried? It didn't sound as hopeful as he wanted it to, but only time could tell. Bruce only dreaded learning the horrible mistakes he made, nervous with every step. 

What if they hated him? What if they stayed because he made it that way? Even at eleven, Bruce thought that he was going to be alone forever, but to force others to stick with him was manipulative and desperate. Did he become that kind of man? 

If he did, he wasn't sure he wanted to go back to being that man again, someone who was alone in his heart. He wondered why Alfred was still by his side. Maybe he did just that but worse, because Alfred was not someone who would give up easily, not without a fight and a dying breath. 

“Master Bruce,” the sharp British voice called out, bringing a small chill to the young patriarch’s spine. The butler looked displeased, a frown on his lips. “Where were you? I went to wake you up, and you were missing.”

Bruce shrugged. “Sorry, Alfred,” he muttered, looking down at his hands. His slippers had grass stains on them. “I couldn't sleep.”

Alfred’s face softened, leaning down a little towards Bruce’s level. “I suppose it's alright, Master Bruce, but stay in the Manor. We don't know how long this will last, so you'd be much safer here. Are you hungry?”

Bruce nodded. 

Alfred gestured his de-aged ward to follow him into the dining room, where Damian, his son, was already sitting, chewing on a morning salad. Titus, who Bruce met a second time, was at the other boy’s feet, ears perked up in constant attention like the good dog he was. 

“Morning, Father,” Damian said, which made Bruce feel surreal. 

Bruce recalled some of his older self’s memories, the dreams, the emotions, the thoughts and desires, but they were all jumbled up. There were a lot of things missing, and whatever he remember were mixed with what he knew at this age. He was eleven, and he was a father to an eleven year old. 

“Morning, Damian,” Bruce replied, almost out of habit, as he walked towards the head of the table as he always did, even as a child. It wasn't like there was anyone else to sit there; he was the last Wayne left, once.

Wordlessly, Alfred placed breakfast before him, and Bruce started to eat, eying the newspaper at his right. He was curious, but he didn't touch it. It wasn't meant for him, not yet.

“Alfred, get off the table,” he heard Damian say, an odd thing really. “I won't let you just walk across breakfast, no matter how free you are.”

Bruce looked over, and realized who Damian was talking to. It was a black cat, white at its mouth and legs, and it was walking with a confident flair over the table, sidestepping Damian’s hand as he tried to swipe the feline off the table. 

Bruce knew he cared for that cat because Damian did too. He cared for all of Damian’s pets because Damian did. He cared when Damian cared because he loved his son. 

(And he was scared, so terrified that he messed everything before the very start. From the very bottom of his heart, he swelled up with happiness that Damian existed, that he had the fortune to father a son by blood. He always thought he was going to be the last Wayne because Bruce Wayne first died at the age of eight. But he wasn't, not anymore. That thought alone brought chills in his spine because he wasn't a good father. He tried, but he knew he wasn't trying hard enough, the walls he had put up layered heavily with stubbornness and the fear of being hurt again, of losing someone he loved again.)

That was an interesting realization, or recollection, for Bruce because he didn't think he would ever feel that way towards another person besides Alfred after his parents’ murder. He thought he had closed his heart from the world forever, and even if he ever did open himself up, the world would reject him. 

Bruce smiled, and Damian noticed. “Something amusing, Father?” his son asked with no bite. 

“No. Just remembering I love you.”

Damian paused, probably not expecting such sentiments. It must not be a regular occurrence. 

His son quickly picked himself up, clearing his throat. “I love you too, Father,” Damian replied, catching Alfred the Cat in his hands. He almost hid himself behind his small pet, a little embarrassed at the blatant expression of affection through straightforward words. 

That made Bruce smile a little more, going back to his breakfast. “So I have other children,” he said, curious. It was like playing pretend family and he was playing father. “Tell me about them.”

Damian hummed, mulling in which order to tell. “There’s a lot of us. It's difficult to decide who to start with.”

“Well, how many kids do I have?”

“Legally? Five, including me. In a vague definition, Drake would say an entire army as one point.”

Bruce’s eyes widen in surprise. “That's a lot.”

“Yes. You have the tendency to take children under your wing.”

Bruce was ready to ask another question when someone, a young man, walked into the room, dressed casually but in an almost stereotypical sense. He shared the same black hair and blue eyes Bruce and Damian had, a smile that took the entire world off guard. 

“Dick,” Bruce spoke out without thinking, greeting out of habit. He loved this man like he loved Damian, but he was also filled with a sad pride at the sight of him.

He was so proud that Dick became a man of great stature, of a character who was beloved by friends and family, so trusted and yet so feared without the nervousness. There was not a hint of shame when Bruce thought of him as his son, Dick Grayson, the first Boy Wonder, the first one to leave him, to move on, to become someone else, something new, an individual. That was where the sadness came from, Bruce figured out; the sadness came from the truth that Dick did just as well without him - and more often than not, even better - leaving his old mentor behind while loving him as a father. 

There was a glint of excitement in Dick’s eyes when he saw Bruce, being more than he expected when Alfred called him and told him of the situation. 

“Is that you, Bruce?” the young man asked, laughing a little. It had grown lower, grown from the higher pitched giggles. “Damian looks so much like you at this age. That's so cute.”

Damian blanched. “I am anything but cute, Grayson,” he refuted. 

“No, you're right. You're not cute; you're  _ adorable,” _ Dick finished, ruffling his youngest brother’s hair. 

“Stop it.”

Dick grinned, so obviously adoring his youngest brother, and he sat down, to the left of Bruce, his usual seat at the dinner table. It had been his since Bruce adopted him. 

“Morning, Bruce,” he said, thanking Alfred with a small touch on the hand. “You know who I am?”

“Dick Grayson,” Bruce answered slowly, “my oldest.”

Dick smiled, lighting up like sunshine, and without a warning, the acrobat lifted Bruce up from his chair, holding onto his de-aged father in a tight hug. 

“Now I know you love me,” Dick said jokingly with a laugh as he held up Bruce around the waist at his hip. The young man rubbed his face against the top of Bruce’s head, something he did with Damian too because he was just so small. 

“Dick,” Bruce said in warning, embarrassed by being carried, no less by his own son, “put me down this instance.”

Dick had a sort of shit grin on his face. “Nope,” he said, carefully tucking Bruce with one arm and grabbing a defenseless Damian with the other. Soon, he was in bliss when he had both his father and his baby brother in his arms, holding onto them as if he was stealing them away. 

“Grayson!” Damian shouted, cheeks red. “I demand you put me and Father down!”

“Nope,” Dick repeated again with the biggest, brightest grin. He was so happy in this moment, embracing Bruce and Damian, both finally portable in his arms. He felt like he was going to burst with joy.

Dick, the kidnapper of Waynes, carried them over to the living room, and he fell gracefully on his back, bringing Bruce and Damian down with him onto the floor. Now, Dick had a peaceful expression on his face, his hands on Bruce and Damian’s heads pressed against his chest. Bruce could hear his son’s heart beat, calm and strong. 

“This is awesome,” Dick muttered softly. 

“Grayson, why are we on the floor?” Damian asked, confused. “There are dozens of couches in the Manor alone.”

“Mhmm, but I won't be able to do this.”

“And what is this, exactly?” Bruce said, not understanding what his son was so happy about. 

“Having you two safe and sound in my arms,” Dick answered, sighing. 

And Bruce understood that. Dick, by no means, was an average person. No, he was much more flexible and taller in height, a physical pinnacle of mankind, but at twenty-five years old, he wasn't the biggest member of the family. Bruce was the tallest, Jason the second and then Dick. Even grown up, Dick couldn't hold onto Bruce as Bruce did when he was a boy.

There was no doubt that Dick could keep them safe, but Bruce supposed it was the sense of being able to hold them with nothing but his arms that really made Dick happy at this moment, because he literally had Bruce and Damian safe and sound in his arms. 

“Sentiments,” Damian said, speaking for both of them, and his youngest settled down, as if he understood too, or at least was sympathetic to how Dick was feeling. 

Bruce hummed shortly in agreement, relaxing as Dick’s hand combed through his hair. 


	3. Collection of Photos

Bruce wasn't sure when he fell asleep, so comforted in Dick’s hug. He wasn't sure when Damian also fell asleep, his breathing shallow. Dick, too, his arms resting on their heads still. Titus was not even an inches away, lazing in the space alongside his two sons.

Quietly, Bruce got up, gently placing both of Dick’s hands on Damian, and reflexively, the older snuggled up with the younger. With careful steps, which came to him almost naturally, Bruce made his way out of the living room, wanting his sons to sleep some more. Alfred knows how much each of them needed their sleep.

Wiping his eyes of drowsiness, Bruce made it to his father’s office, which was his now, but it used to be his father's nonetheless. Not a lot changed; the books and pictures were still in the wall, the mahogany desk still in used, and the rug hadn't been replaced. The only difference was that all for his father’s medical equipment were put away and still reminded Bruce how it was his father’s office.

He took a seat on the large leather chair at the desk, a heaviness in his heart. The weight was always there, but it had been growing heavier since this morning. He took a look around whatever was on the desk.

There were a lot of pictures, a lot more than he expected. In the middle, there was one of his parents posing happily in front of Gotham pier, a seven year old Bruce standing between them. Right next to it, there they were again, with Alfred this time, for a family Christmas photo, dressed in their Sunday best. Once upon a time, that was his entire family, and Bruce never wished for anything more than them.

He still felt grief for his parents, now and later, but he felt reassurance for Alfred, because the butler, his second father, was still at his side. Bruce knew there were time s when he was difficult, as a child and as an adult, and any sane person would have left the first time they hear that their child ward was going to dress up like a bat and fight crime. Or at least try to stop them.

Bruce could only wonder when Alfred would finally be finished with him and leave as he looked at the other pictures. The boy made a mental note to give the old man seven entire life savings when the times comes.

On the far right, there were pictures of people around his age, older, and most were fellow heroes, in and out for the league. But in these pictures, they weren't their costumes or masks; they were friends.

There was a picture of him, Diana, and Clark, all of them, casual. They were on a private boat, enjoying a sunny with no chance of cloudy day, sipping cocktails. They had fun that day, Alfred - that wonderful man - arranging for a get together with the two people from the League Bruce had difficulty saying no to when they joined up against him. They got the rest of the League to pick up their part for the day, and the night drifted away without a violent sound for once.

That was the largest picture of friends, and it was surrounded with a few smaller ones, mostly ones with other people excluding him. There was one with Zatanna, Jason on her right and John on her left. Boston was in the picture too, but the camera couldn't catch him.

He also had one of Selina, and unsurprisingly, she was with Harley and Ivy, all raising up their drinks in celebration. There was one with him and Harvey, when he was a man who still believed in the world.

And in one collection frame, small squares connected together in an oddly shaped rhombus, he had the members of the Justice League he was closest to. Barry was winning with a teeth grin with Hal leaning on him with one arm, winking as well with a hand post snap. J’onn was floating a little above the floor, in a state of perfect meditation, and John and Shayera were laughing at an inside joke together. Oliver and Dinah were dancing during a social party with eyes only for each other.

Bruce never thought he would have this many people to care about, to call his friends. In a way, the idea of them was foreign because he simply didn't believe it either. He felt lucky to know them. Maybe opening himself back to the world wasn't as bad as he thought it would be.

He turned his attention to the left side of the desk. That was where his family were, the most messy of the collection of photos because there were just so many different versions of them.

There was a recent photo of Dick, dressed in his officer uniform, and stuck in the corner of the frames were smaller pictures of the first time he and Dick took a photo together after the adoption papers went through and of a little after Dick left the Robin mantle.

There was a picture of Damian, posed like a prince in a priss suit with Titus looking equally as regal. At the corner of that frame, there was a baby photo of his youngest, so tiny in Talia’s arms with a chubby belly. She looked so proud.

There was a picture of Jason, smoking a cigarette in the garden with dark bags underneath his blue eyes. At the corner, there was picture of Jason with Rory and Kori, laying on top of each other in a small, temporary apartment in Crime Alley, and there was a picture of a younger Jason, a few months before he died.

There was a picture of Tim, asleep in a weird angle on the stairs. Alfred was the one to find him like that, but it was Bruce who carried him to bed because he didn't make it that far. At the side of the frame, there was a picture of Tim leaning over on Kon’s shoulder, the both of them standing with members of the Teen Titans, and another with Tim and Stephanie taken in a photobooth at the mall, making the silliest faces possible.

There was a picture of Cassandra, very lovely with the sun shining behind her and holding her hands up in a heart shape with a tiny smile. With her full body photo, there was Stephanie again, along with Barbara, all three of them holding the sign for peace during a Ferris wheel ride, Gotham lit up in the background.

There was a photo of Kate too, with her wife, on their wedding day, right at the moment for the 'you may kiss the bride’. Her father was standing with a huge smile on the side, looking a little teary.

There was a picture of the Fox family as well, the Fox patriarch a close friend of both Bruce and Alfred. It was a family vacation photo in Venice, all of them riding on one of those boats.

Once Bruce took the time to look at each and every of the photos at his desk, he felt almost overwhelmed by how much he cared for each and every one of the subjects. He knew he loved each and every one of them, and he hoped that they knew he loved them. And yet, he also knew they might not know the extent of his affections because he never told them directly.

Bruce recalled many, many instances of him softening his glare, his words, his stances when he began to trust someone, but not many could tell. That was just how thick his walls were, and at that moment, his walls were still thick but weren’t tall enough to contain the demons he had.

He pushed himself a feet from the desk, leaving a lot of space between him and his friends and family. Eleven year old Bruce felt very fortunate, but he also feel very anxious and afraid. The pictures allowed him to remember how he cared for these people, but that was all. Where were all the bad feelings, he thought? He knew he made so many mistakes, but where were they? Where were the rest of the sadness and regret?

The only conclusion he was able to make was that he had to meet them face to face to get it, the photos just to help him recall whose face belonged to who.

Bruce wanted to meet them, while he was still jumbled up on the head, before he went back to being the man he became. He, a child with a future brighter than he could ever dream of, wanted to experience these people with this newfound hope.

He needed to know.


	4. Among Friends

With carefully, practiced steps, Bruce made his way towards the hallways - _the grandfather clock his father loved_ \- and brought a chair, using it as leverage due to his height. He was only gone from Dick and Damian for twenty minutes, but he knew they would wake up soon enough. And Alfred must have went out on an errand while they were sleeping, trusting them not to cause mischief in their relaxed state but no doubt would soon return, the British man's sixth sense the finest there would ever be. 

The clock soundlessly moved, revealing the secret passageway into a cave - _his cave, the Cave_ \- and he immediately went to the large computer system that was the glowing centerpiece in the dark. The clock closed up behind him. _A manual lock on the left._

Bruce turned around briefly and pressed the small green button on the left of the entrance, turning dim red as the locks clicked into place. He didn't bother to take a seat, his height appropriate enough to see the keys. He began typing with ease, a natural skill taking over as he executed the first part of his plan.

Once the messages were sent out, Bruce went into the lockers, where a few multiple versions of the costumes were. He touched each one of them, the fabric running softly against his skin, but he didn't put any of them on, not even Robin’s because none of these were his.

Instead, he took a few miscellaneous items and an extra domino mask and put it on, believing that his outfit was well enough to meet the people he considered his closest friends. He would take it off later when he can reaffirm that he trusted them.

Reading the clock, seven minutes had past since he went down to the Cave, and he quickly hopped into the personal zeta tube. He typed in the coordinates, and a voice spoke, _Batman, designation: Watchtower._

The tube activated, and Bruce felt himself become as light as the fuzz of a feather, the white taking his sight for a moment. The Cave disappeared into the Monitor Womb of the Watchtower.

As expected, it was empty, but only for another three minutes, along with the hallways that led towards the meeting room. With purpose, Bruce quickly rushed to that room, doing his best to remain aware of his surroundings. Even though heroes can follow orders well, it didn't mean that there weren't going to be a few who would break them a little early.

Unused to running a good distance, Bruce felt a little tired when he got to the JLA council chamber. He was panting as he took a seat at the chair directly facing the door. He turned his back away from it, taking a moment for his heart to calm down.

Luckily, he got there thirty seconds before the appointed time, so he managed to get a few good cough in to clear his throat before the doors slid open.

He waited a moment, sieving through whatever he recalled to recognized the footsteps.

_A movement in the air, a flickering of a serious flare._

_A swift pace of feet, a blur even to sound._

_An elegant and regal set of feet to grace the earth, the sky, the universe._

_A fluttering of wings nearly touching the ground she walked on._

_No footsteps, just phasing through the world like dark matter._

_A footless walk, nearly silent save for the train of his cape._

Trusting that his memories didn't fail him, Bruce turned himself and the chair around, revealing himself as the mastermind behind this assemble. He would never admit this out loud, but he did have a flair for dramatic reveal.

“Hello, Justice League,” Bruce greeted, his hands on his lap.

Their reaction almost went as he thought, his adult memories being mixed with his childlike expectations. They were surprise, of course, because a child they didn't recognize was in the Watchtower, waiting for them.

“Why is there a kid here?” John asked, incredulously to have another child in the League. _Loyalty._

Barry came zooming at his side, taking an extremely short moment to take a look at Bruce. “Don't recognize him,” he reported back to the older members of the League, “but he's definitely wearing a Bat mask. I'll never mistaken that for anything else.” _Affection._

Shayera held her mace in both of her hands as she took a threatening step towards Bruce. “We should start asking questions then,” she suggested, her eyes hard on the boy. _Honor._

“We will not attack a child, Hawkgirl,” Diana said, holding an arm out to stop the other woman from making another move. “He may not be as dangerous as we think.” _Admiration._

“I am not sure of that, Wonder Woman,” J’onn said, frowning as Bruce felt appendages trying to sort through his mind. “His mind is jumble, two of the same person now and then.” _Trust._

Bruce’s heart wanted to burst out in tears, hearing his friends. He had each and every one of their voices and speech patterns memorized and cataloged, in his mind and computers. He had files upon files of them, of their interest and hobbies, their likes and dislikes, their very lives documented in stacks of paper kept in a drawer wedged in between the penny and the dinosaur.

He didn't noticed he was holding his breath until he felt a little light headed, and he tried to control his oxygen intake again, only to find it a little more difficult to breathe, a lump crushing at his throat.

Bruce swallowed, completely blank of what to say. What did he tell them? That he loved them? That he was sorry for all those time he was inconsiderate and hurt them in order to make sure the mission succeeded? What should he say?

He felt lost, the shadows wrapping around him. This was a bad idea; there were too many people at the same time, and all the emotions his adult self hid underneath the cowl was going to fall through the empty space that would be there if he donned the Batman in this state.

And then suddenly, he was pulled away from his overwhelming thoughts as he was lifted off the seat, and all he felt was warmth, love, trust. _Soulmate._

“Bruce?” Clark asked, looking worryingly surprised at the boy in his arms. 

This was his best friend and his worst enemy, an alien who lost his entire planet but found a home on another with parents who loved him just as much as his biological parents did, the parents who sacrificed themselves to send their newborn and only son away from inevitable destruction, his lucky opposite in many ways. This was Kal, his brother-in-arms, and they knew each other’s identity before Dick was ever Robin and Lois found out. This was his soulmate, the man he trusted just as much as he trusted his own family because this man was family, his brother. This was Clark, and he loves him. 

“Thank you,” Bruce said, tears spilling out as he gripped where the cape met the collar. _For staying. For being there. For loving me._

Clark, as if he knew what was going on through Bruce’s mind, gently pulled the domino masked from Bruce’s face and placed it on the table, the reveal stunning the other members because for a second, they thought it was Damian, the blue eyes, the black hair, the soft curves of his lips and cheekbones.

“You're welcome,” the Man of Steel said, knowing not why Bruce was thanking him but acknowledging it nonetheless, and he freed a hand to wipe away some of the tears from his de-aged friend’s face.

Bruce pressed his face against Clark’s neck, his grip trembling slightly.

He heard Diana come towards them first. “Is that really Bruce, Kal?” she asked carefully. Her voice was soft, volume low as if not to disturb the two.

“Yeah,” Clark replied, his voice rumbling lowly in his chest. “I listened to his heartbeat. I recognized him on the spot.”

“I guess the Bats didn't bother to tell us,” John accused. “I guess this is what you do for one of your own. I'm pretty sure Batman wouldn't appreciate it if we knew he turned back into a kid.”

“I was going to hit him with my mace,” Shareya said, unhappy about almost attacking a teammate and fellow hero.

“His mind makes more sense now,” J’onn noted. “It seems that memories are being mixed with what he knows at this age. I feel the great abundance of emotions that I only felt inkling of when with Batman.”

“He's so cute!” Barry nearly shouted, getting close to Bruce again, this time for a closer observation of the boy bidding his shameful face. “Let me have a turn, Superman. I want to hold the baby.”

“I'm not a baby, Flash,” Bruce warned, not liking being treated like a child, though he made no effort to get out of Clark’s hold. He quickly wiped at his eyes with his sleeve and put his head as high as he could with dignity, but the effort was halved when he felt the need to rest his head against the side of Clark’s. “My mental capabilities are more limited as a child, but I still remember everything in your files.”

“What happened, B?” Clark asked, concerned. “How did you get like this?”

Bruce shrugged, because he didn't know either. He wasn't told of anything last night, and he didn't have a chance this morning. “Robin witnessed the event. I don't remember that part.”

John made a face, crossing his arms. “So what are you doing here, alone?” he asked, suspicious. “If the others don't want anyone else to know, then you shouldn't be here. Did you sneak off?”

The Green Lantern said it in a way that made Bruce felt like he was being parented, caught red-handed breaking curfew. Bruce didn't reply, not dignifying the question with an answer.

Barry laughed, finding this really funny. He ran past, and Clark found himself empty handed, Bruce captured by the speedster.

“Barry!” Bruce scolded, as he was thrown up a foot up in the arm and securely caught in Barry’s arms a few times.

“He's so light,” Barry noted happily. “Like a kitten!”

“Barry,” Clark tried to warn.

“My turn,” Diana then said, catching Bruce midair, and Barry let out a disappointed groan. The princess smiled softly as she pressed Bruce against her breast, almost rocking him around in her hold. “I've always wanted to coddle you, Bruce.”

“Me too,” Shareya said, wanting to take the chance.

“I think I would like to as well,” J’onn added.

Bruce wanted to frown at the fact that his friends wanted to carry him like he was a child (which he was at the moment but that was not the point), but he was feeling comfortable pressed against Diana. She was warm and gentle, kind and caring as she held him, motherly. He could hear her heartbeat, and it was a calming rhythm. He was sure he could fall asleep to the sound of it.

“We should get him back home,” Clark suggested. “Someone's bound to figure out he's gone, and I don't want to deal with an angry Robin or a disappointed Agent A.”

“I want to stay here,” Bruce countered as Diana passed him off to Shareya, who had him wrap his arms around her neck.

She was a lot gentler than he expected, lovingly rubbing his back, like an older sister if he ever had one. Shareya looked at him with an amused smile, entertained by having something so small in her arms.

“Not when you're like this,” John said as a matter-of-factly. “We need to know what happened and try to fix it as soon as possible, and that means getting you home where there are people to personally keep you out of harm's way. Whoever did this to you still might be around.”

“I’m capable of protecting myself, John,” Bruce replied, not a bit pleased by this. “If I go back to Gotham, I'll be put under house arrest because if anybody else was in my position, that's what I would do.”

“What do you need to do, Baby Bruce?” Barry teased, Shareya giving J’onn a turn after a brief press of her lips on his forehead.

J’onn wasn't as warm as Diana or Shareya, cooler to the touch, and his green skin was smooth like a flat surface with the flexibility of flesh. From the very moment Bruce got within a foot of the Martian, he could also feel J’onn’s telekinetic touch prodding his mind but not intruding, as if to say hello, an unspoken greeting. Bruce pushed back a little, a nudge to greet back, and J’onn had a small smile, remained of a happier time.

“That's none of your business,” Bruce answered, the gears in his thoughts working to make an escape plan out of Watchtower without the League coming after him.

“You should go home, Bruce,” J’onn said, his telepathic ability keeping Bruce calm and comfortable. “I believe what you seek will come to you.”

Bruce frowned, not liking what J’onn was saying, but he trusted the Martian, knowing that he was rarely wrong when it came to things of intuition. “Okay,” he said. 

“It's not often Bruce will conceded immediately like that,” Diana said, smiling.

“He feels safe here,” J’onn noted, “among friends. Though he doesn't say it, he trusts us.”


	5. Slumbering Dragon

Alfred, of course, was upset by the time Bruce returned from the Watchtower. His oldest ward had turned into one of his youngest ones, and said youngest ward decided to go off on his own without so much of a word. To say the butler was disappointed was an understatement, placing a sentence on young Bruce. That was how Bruce ended up getting house arrest until the situation was dealt with by Dick, who left to start in the investigation.

“You are unharmed, Father?” Damian asked in the garden.

“I am, Damian,” Bruce replied, looking fully over the beautiful flowers. They were near full bloom, “but I'm feeling restless.”

“How about we spar then?”

Bruce nodded, liking the idea a lot better than taking a walk, and they headed towards the personal gym. They would have gone to the Cave, but Alfred had banned Bruce from going back in there. They quickly changed into workout clothes, standing a few feet from each other on the mat.

“So what happened last night?” Bruce asked as he pulled the first punch, aiming at Damian’s face, but it was much slower than he remembered so Damian caught it with a quick swipe and kicked at his father’s legs.

Bruce, his reflex slower and his body less limber, fell hard on his side, his feet swept from under him. “It seems that you got slow, Father,” Damian mocked lightly. “Do keep up.”

And Bruce smiled, getting back up and pounced, his shoulder feeling a little bruised. “Answer the question, Damian.”

Damian didn't reply the first time, countering his de-aged father’s attack. For the next ten minutes, their moves became a pattern, Bruce hitting and Damian dodging. Damian’s lack of attack irritated Bruce, which made him punch harder and aim more accurately, but neither helped him land a hit on his son, who was smirking, the tables turned.

After the ten minutes was up, Bruce had used up all his energy and soon became exhausted, his heart beating in his ears. He attempted one last punch at Damian’s face, but his son caught his fist and twist his arm hard enough to flip Bruce on his side.

“What happened?” Bruce asked, going back to their conversation as he was sucking in air on his back  

“We were out on patrol as usual,” Damian answered, leaning towards his father with his hands at his knees, “until we ran across an amateur magic user attempting to steal from the bank. We fought him, but before he was taken down completely, he dropped small bottle filled with some magical powder I believe, and you were caught in the middle of it. When the smoke disappeared, you were in your costume as you are now.”

“I should investigate this.”

“Grayson said to leave it to him,” Damian said, shaking his head, picking his father up. “He's going to ask the others to help, and I'm here to guard you, Father. Bodyguard is not my preferred forte, but I'm willing to overlook it this time.”

Bruce frowned. “I don't need a babysitter, Damian.”

Damian clicked his tongue. “You'll have to speak to Pennyworth about that. He's the one to suggest it.”

Bruce rolled his eyes, recalling that this was something his oldest friend and surrogate father would do, keeping him out of the fray as much as possible if it was in his power, and as of the moment, Alfred had the most authority, as he did anyway. Everyone would listen to Alfred, whether out of fear or out of not wanting to disappoint the man. The butler had a lot of influence over his ward and his ward’s wards.

They were interrupted by the sound of motorcycles driving into the Cave, and Bruce watched as the riders took off their helmets and got off their bikes.

“Welcome home, Master Dick, Jason, Tim,” Alfred said, coming down the stairs with a tray as if he was expecting them.

Bruce was stunned silent when he got a good look at his second so- _former partner_. Jason was much taller at this height, a smirk on his lips to show that he was amused by Bruce’s sudden change. He had grown up so strong, but he was robbed of a childhood. He never had a childhood, because Bruce took it from him, taking in a street orphan because he was left sorely wounded by Dick’s departure. That was why Jason called Tim Replacement, not because he hated his successor but because he wanted Tim to know exactly what Bruce was doing, again.

But Bruce was not speechless because he just realized that; he'd figured that out a long time ago, because he was really observant to how he destroyed the lives around them, his greatest flaw the inability to fix his mistakes. No, he was speechless because seeing Jason with the mental immaturity of an eleven year old unleashed all the regret and guilt grown up him had been pushing away. Grown up him was very good at pushing things away.

“Is that him, Dickie?” Jason asked, snickering as he walked up to Bruce, who was looking at him with unblinking eyes.

“Did it hurt?” Bruce found himself asking, his voice fading away as the blood rushed through his ears. _When you died? When Joker beat you with a crowbar? Was it worse when I didn't make it in time? I have nightmares of you, and you're always begging, praying for me to come save you. That's how it ends. I'm standing right next to you, but you don't see me and I don't do anything. And it all fades to black because nothing changes. Did it hurt? Are you still angry? Why don't you give me what I deserve? I don't deserve any of this; I never did. I don't deserve you, and you certainly don't deserve me. Did it hurt, Jason? Did it hurt so much that you hate everything? Did it? Why won't you talk to me? I just want to know._

A hand was placed on his shoulder, and Bruce looked up, unaware that he was speaking out loud, his voice drowned out by everything he had been keeping inside for a very long time.

“It's okay, Bruce,” Tim said softly. _It's not._

Tim, Bruce did bad by him too, the only one who believed he was alive when the rest of the world didn't. Tim was his son too, and Bruce was neglectful of him, to all of them. But it was a little different for Tim because his own parents did that to him from the beginning. Bruce was no better than them, and all he wanted to do was to do better by his children.

God, he should have taken better care of Tim, paid more attention. He should've sent Tim back home to the Drake Estate instead. It was better to grow up alone and unloved than to become the sidekick to a man who dressed up as a _bat,_ pursuing a perverted idea of justice by taking things in his own hands. It would have been better than to watch your friends sacrifice themselves and die, to sacrifice yourself and die. A kid wasn't suppose to know what that was like. Tim had another future for him, being the only heir of the Drake family. He could've lived a life outside of crime and death. He could've had a future without Bruce.

“Tim,” Bruce breathed out, finding difficult to do so, like the oxygen levels were decreasing at an exponential rate. He was being crushed, and he couldn't think of anything but _run away._

“I can't,” he said, eyes opened wide. “Protocol Distraction Blackout Omega-56. Activate backup generators one minute.”

“Bruce?” Dick said, and the entire Cave turned off its light.

“Father!” Damian shouted, getting used to the darkness, but then the sounds started, mimicking footsteps in each direction.

Bruce, in one fluid movement, pushed Tim’s hand away and ran, using nothing but his memories to navigate through the darkness. _Secret escape route behind the dinosaur._ The door slid almost silently behind him, the calls of his protigés fading away behind him.

Alone, he continued to run through the cold chasm pathway away from the Cave, from them. He needed to get away. He needed space to breathe. He needed time to rebuild the walls, stack up more bricks in the well, cement more layers. He couldn't, he knew, shaking as he kept running and running.

He didn't notice when the walls became the trees, the night sky seemingly starless behind a curtain of clouds. He wasn't focused. He wasn't watching. He was falling, deja vu of the motion playing over and over again on fast forward as he landed at the bottom of a dried up well in a small puddle of water, the last remnant of what it once held.

Bruce wasn't sure if he screamed or not as he fell, but suddenly, he felt calm. This was not home. This was not safe. But this was him, trapped in a tower too high to climb out of. He was not a damsel in distress here; he was the slumbering dragon in his dominion.

He was afraid and injured and shivering, and most of all, he was alone. He hated being alone, but he was so used to it, that had become a comfortable fit, a second skin. It was armor for his soft, soft heart held together with old stitches and bloody bandages.


	6. Here, Not Alone

He couldn't tell how long he had been unconscious, the sunlight stabbing his sensitive eyes. He was burning at the bottom of the well, and he could see the scratches he had gained from the fall. His shoulder felt bruised, a strain at his neck and a warm pain at his ankle.

He felt bad right now, but it was nothing compared to everything outside the well. He was hungry, but he didn't want to leave this place. And yet he had to. He would die here if he didn't, and he didn't feel like he wanted to die. He wasn't sure what he wanted at this point, his memories and his emotions blurring the lines between defeat and hope, but he didn't want to die, not here, not alone. He didn't want to die alone.

Bruce sat up, gritting his teeth as he tried desperately to find a way out. His bruised shoulder and his sprained ankle wouldn't allow him a way to climb up. He was tempted to try, but he decided that the penalty of falling again would outweigh the consequences of starving until he was found.

But he didn't want them to find him though. He didn't feel like he could face them. It would be like staring at a mirror, everything he had been running away from instantly given a portal that led directly back to him. For a moment, he closed his eyes, forcing his brain to figure out how to get out, breathing in in a careful pace through the pain and weariness.

And from behind him, he head them, the fluttering of featherless wings. Bruce slowly turned around, and he began to dig, clawing at the dirt wall. He heard it, the creatures living in the hollowness behind a burial.

Dirt got under his nails, soiling his clothes even more. His white socks were becoming brown, the fluttering becoming less faint and more real. He heard chirping, digging faster. He hands felt raw, turning red from irritation, but he ignored them, as he did many things.

Then the dirt caved in, dug in enough to collapsed on its own, and they rushed up, the bats. It was like they were attacking him, Bruce covering his face with his arms as he heard himself scream out of fright and surprise. From the chirping, he knew what they were, but they still scared him.

When the last of them flew out of the well, which Bruce wished he could too, he saw his way of escaping the old well. It was the passageway in which the well got water in the olden days, connecting to a river that dried up years ago, before Wayne Manor was created. Bruce knew because he read all the records, every texts and document etched into his memory.

He didn't want to go, exhausted and sweating from the digging, but not here.

Pushing himself, Bruce crawled through the opening in the dirt wall, finding that it was darker and damper underground. He couldn't see. He couldn't feel anything but hot and one side of the wall.

He didn't know where he was going. He could only trace his way through the tunnel, sliding carefully with one foot then the other along the wall. He paused whenever he heard another bat, limbing halfway. The only moment of relief was when he rested and pressed his skin against the cool wall.

Bruce tried not to think much as he continued but it didn't stop his heart from being yanked through his throat. He had to swallow to keep it back down. With every step, he became a little more hesitant to continue, the draw of turning back more and more appalling.

He kept going, though, because the darkness made him feel stronger, like he could hide away at anytime, the emptiness a buffer between him, and the loneliness remaining the greatest protection. He was starting to feel as if he was growing up to be the person he already was, the darkness enclosing his heart.

He was beginning to feel like himself again, but everything was still too small, the walls, the layers, the well, the armor. His eleven year old mentality was getting into the way of returning to his path, still childishly believing that things could change, that things were okay. He still believed he could fix things, even if they left scars.

Bruce didn't know how much time had passed, feeling his way out of the tunnel, but luck was kind to him and he was then washed with sunlight. He was tired and dirty, and he was in the woods behind Wayne Manor.

He didn't cry out for help or look around for anybody; he started straight for the Manor, not saying a word as his entire body yelled at him to stop. He dragged himself through the terrain of trees and wildlife, thinking about nothing but going home.

Maybe this was all a dream, the pictures, his friends, his family. It felt like it, his grieving mind creating a whole life to escape from the cruelty of reality. It would make sense. Maybe it was getting to him again, the pain, the silence, the staring at the portrait of his parents, the whispers, the fever, the fear, the pretending, the wishing and wanting.

“Bruce?” His name drew him out of his thought, standing in the middle of the large entrance room of the Manor. When did he get here? Why was his clothes so wet and dirty? Where had he been? Why wasn't he okay?

Bruce stopped looking at his defiled leathered shoes, dirt dragged into the impeccable title floor. Alfred looked burdened with concern, broken with relief as he came closer towards his oldest ward.

“Where have you been?” the butler said, kneeling down to take closer look at Bruce. He pulled out a clean, white handkerchief and started to wipe away the dirt from Bruce’s face. “Dear Lord, you're burning up!”

“I’m fine, Alfred,” Bruce replied, almost mechanically. “I'm alright. Sorry for the mess.”

Alfred frowned almost sadly. The old man stood up, ushering Bruce gently towards the master bedroom. “Please, get yourself cleaned up, Master Bruce, and get into bed. You've been missing for nearly twelve hours, and everyone is worrying themselves sick. I'll be back with some soup and medicine for you.”

Bruce stopped Alfred before the butler could say another word. “Don't tell them,” he said. “Not yet. I don't want to see anybody.” _Anymore._

Alfred’s face fell, but his wrinkled eyes told Bruce he understood. “Of course, Master Bruce,” his surrogate father agreed, “but only until they return. Now go take a shower and head straight to bed. Call me if you need me.”

Bruce nodded wordlessly, noticing Alfred’s hesitation to leave him alone. When the butler was gone, his heavier footsteps going down the stairs, the Wayne patriarch went the shower, turning the heat on enough to make the water feel scolding. It did well to stop him from shivering, standing beneath the spray of water in his dirty clothes. He took them off one by one, dropping them at the feet without care. He kicked off his shoes and socks.

He stood under there for a while, barely a thought going through his head. He had to get out as soon as possible so he could get to bed, recover from the fever as he hides away in his sleep. He felt tired, his body still yelling at him, but he ignored it as he always did.

With both hands, he turned the water off, the steam covering every surface in the bathroom. Bruce stepped out of the shower, feeling light headed, but steadied himself by grabbing the cold, damp wall. He grabbed a towel and stumbled his way back into the master bedroom, where he found a set of pajamas set on the bed waiting for him.

He struggled to put it on, fighting the urge to pass out and sleep. He got his shirt and pants on without any more trouble, and then his body locked him down, falling on top of the freshly made bed. Bruce shivered a little as his eyes closed heavy, his last thought was that he was here, alone.


	7. Sorry / Lonely Without You

It wasn't cold when he woke up. Instead, he was groggy and feeling as if a fire was running through his veins, an ache hitting his eyes as he glanced over the sunlight on the carpet floor. It wasn't completely dark, the middle of the day, but Bruce couldn't open his eye all too much, feeling the bandage around his injured ankle rather than seeing it. His shoulder still felt a little bruised, but all the scraps and cuts were bandaged too, weak smell of ointment hitting his nose.

Still exhausted and sick, Bruce went to close his eyes, but he noticed that his left side was warmer than his right. He tilted his neck, nearly wincing at the sharp pain.

Damian was at his left, sleeping beside Bruce with an inch between them. Bruce smiled briefly, but he wished his youngest wasn't there. There was a greater ache in his heart as he thought back, feeling hollowness when he recalled his son’s murder. What kind of father lets his son die, stabbed through the heart? And his other sons witnessed it too. He let them feel as hopeless as he did.

“I'm so sorry,” Bruce whispered, his voice cracked and his lips chapped, and he sighed, doing his best to sit up. He needed to leave, to go somewhere where no one could find him. There was just an overwhelming sense of dread in him, and he didn't know what to do besides hide.

A hand stopped him, his movements too ungraceful and unpracticed to sneak away. “Father,” Damian said, his reflecting blue eyes aware and alert, “you're not well. You need your rest.”

Bruce frowned, lying back down because he knew he didn't have the strength or energy to run now. He laid back and stared at the ceiling above the bed, not saying a thing, and Damian held him by the hand, keeping his father prisoner by interlocking their fingers.

His son was so big now, he thought. It was a crime that his youngest was growing up so fast.

“Next time, take me with you, Father,” Damian said, squeezing his father's hand. “You were hurt.”

Bruce couldn't reply, not knowing what was the right thing to say. Instead, he squeezed back, their hands warm. He felt happy here, with Damian. _Always._

“I'm so sorry,” Bruce said again, his eyes half closed. His voice was still cracked and low. “You make me feel too much.”

“Of what?”

“Happy. And I love you. And I'm afraid.”

Damian looked to his father, not moving away. “I was too,” the boy confessed, “when you disappeared. I thought you might die. Don't do that again, Father. Not without me. I don't want to lose you.”

“I don't want to lose _you_ , Damian. Not again.”

“Not again,” Damian repeated, drawing closer to his father. There was a thoughtful look on his desert kissed face, as if memories were playing back in his mind right then. “I would be very lonely without you.”

Bruce didn't believe that, not as much as Damian did. “You'd still have Dick,” he countered, his fever and the bed making him sleepy, but he wanted to stay up a little longer, to talk. “You'd still have everyone else, and Talia. She loves you. She loves very much. You won't be lonely. You won't even notice.”

Damian’s thoughtfulness twisted into anger, irritation. “Shut up, Father,” the boy demanded, scowling. He clicked his tongue. “You're an _idiot_. You don't get to tell me how I’d feel. I know what I know, and I know that it'd hurt if you disappear again, because I know I was afraid. I was afraid that you'd slip and fall and die, a defenseless boy who had an accident. That's not how the Batman should fall, and that's not how my father should fall. If you're ever going to die, it's going to be in your bed, as old as Grandfather, surrounded by your children and grandchildren, not lost in the woods. And I'd notice. I notice a lot of things, Father. I _will_ notice if you're gone. I _will_ be lonely without you. You are my father and you are an idiot, so shut up and never disagree with me again.”

Bruce was surprised, by his son’s outburst and by the light feeling in his chest. He was surprised into smiling, squeezing Damian’s hand again.

“Okay, Damian,” he breathed out, content to not question this moment or to thinking too much on it, on this perfect moment. He felt like his existence mattered again. He had forgotten that in the tunnel. He had forgotten about a lot of things, lost in guilt and regret.

He pressed his lips on top of his son’s head, placing a gentle kiss.

* * *

 

For the next two days, Bruce was confined to bed which was a lot bigger than he thought it should be in a room much bigger than necessary for an eleven year old boy. The size of everything and his fever would have been demoralizing if it was not for Damian who put his effort to stay with his father as much as possible, even when Bruce was asleep most of the time. The boy was home schooled by choice, already at a college level of education, and read books and articles to settle his curious and stay on his toes.

During the day, Damian would stay by his father’s side with something to read or a drawing pad, carrying an arsenal of coal and color pencils. Sometimes, he would talk about the League, keeping his de-aged father updated, and report on the current events in Gotham. Brucie Wayne was currently on vacation again in some obscure island location only filthy rich playboys would go to. And after every patrol, Damian would sleep in the master bedroom, a guardian of the night.

And Bruce was eternally grateful, as Damian would never keep himself more than a foot away. Bruce loved that Damian would allow him to hold him, wrapping his arms in return. It made Bruce’s heart feel as light as air, his son the anchor to keep him from floating away.

The third day, the fever broke and Bruce finally noticed the visitors who had been watching from the doorway, peering to watch him out of curious and desire to come in. One didn't want to ruin the moment, another didn't want to be interruptive in a moment that didn't belong to him, and the last one was reserved about staying in the Manor while Bruce was still there.

Bruce hoped they'd stay out. He wasn't ready for them.

“Father,” Damian said, breaking his thought, “Grayson asks if he could come in.”

Bruce looked over to the door, seeing the last second of a face dashing out of sight. Dick was standing there, keeping his ear open. “I don't know,” he whispered, biting the inside of his cheek. “Is he mad at me?”

Damian raised an eyebrow. “Why would Grayson be mad at you?”

“Because I let myself get hurt again. He gets upset when it happens, ever since he was Robin. Sometimes, he gets really mad and doesn't come by at all.”

“He lives in Blüdhaven, Father. He doesn't come by often.”

“Yes, but he tries to show up once a week at least. When he's mad at me, he only talks to me as Nightwing.”

“You dislike Grayson speaking to you only on a professional level.”

Bruce nodded slowly.

Dick was the first person, barring Alfred, who spoke to him and look at him like he was family. Dick knew his parents and loved them, and he had a heart big enough to let Bruce in happily, placing him right next to John and Mary Grayson and never once truly resent him for that. When Dick was younger, he would give Bruce the silent treatment, and Bruce would always get a sharp painless feeling running through his gut, like he did something wrong. Never had he apologized for doing something reckless because Bruce knew that everything he did was necessary for justice, but for Dick, anything that could knock Bruce off his feet was terrifying.

“He’s not mad, Father,” Damian said, sitting on the chair next to the bed with a sketchbook on his lap. “Not as much as he is worried. He hasn't stop asking about you since you returned, even though you're in the same place. He's too afraid you'd hide from him again.”

“How do you know that?” Bruce asked.

His youngest son looked at him as if that was the most innate question ever spoken out loud. “As you know, Father, Grayson likes to talk, _a lot._ ”

Bruce sighed, closing his eyes, and he sat up, leaning against the thick, wooden bed frame. “Okay.”

Damian clicked in tongue. “Father, you should stop whispering. Grayson won't be able to hear you.”

Bruce sighed again, his lips pressed thinly together. “Dick,” he said, no longer whispering. “Are you still there?”

Dick stuck his head into the room, looking unusually shy. It was like meeting him for the first time, the tragically orphaned son of traveling circus performers. “How you feeling?” his oldest asked first, not yet taken a step in.

“Better. You can come in, you know.”

“Can I jump on the bed too?”

Bruce nodded, and Dick finally came in and he threw himself into the bed, carefully landing on top of Bruce’s short legs and wrapping his arms around his father’s waist. Damian wordlessly stood up and left them alone.

“Hi, B,” Dick said, his words muffled against the blanket.

“Hi, Dick,” Bruce replied back, unconsciously reaching to pat his oldest on the head. “Sorry.”

That made Dick look up, confused. “For what?”

Bruce shrugged. “I don't know. I just am.” _Because a panic attack was none of their fault, but he was always apologetic for things he didn't do._

“Okay,” Dick replied, quietly accepting it. “Just don't do that again.”

“I can't promise that,” Bruce replied almost immediately.

“I know. Can't hurt to try. It's kind of lonely without you, that's all.”

All Bruce could say to that was, “Sorry.”


	8. Wherever I Go

He cared for her, loved her like a sister he never had, and he knew she loved him more than that, before she decided it was better to give up on him. Not because she could do better but because Bruce didn't see her that way, not the way she would have liked him to. And it didn’t define her; she was one of the people he trusted the most, a close ally with amazing talent and the drive to do good. He simply adored her as he adored many of the women in his life for they remained strong when he would waver, and he had nothing but praises for them.

“You're adorable, Bruce,” Zatanna said, smiling as she pulled out her phone and took a picture with him. She was sitting at Bruce’s bedside, arriving only minutes ago when she was done with her business in India.

Bruce blushed. “ _Zatanna,”_ he said, reminding her why she was called in the first place.

“Oh, yes, right. So an ametuer did this to you?”

“That's what Damian reported, yes.”

“How was the spell casted?”

“A bottle fell and released some form of powder on impact. Apparently, there was nothing spoken and most likely incidental.”

“And how do you feel?”

Bruce paused for a moment, trying to find the word that fit most to his current situation. “Defenseless,” he replied, and the word felt right.

Zatanna frowned, thinking this over. With a wave her hand, she spoke, “Nruter ot ruoy lanigiro fles.”

Nothing happened, and they were both frowning.

“Enog, enog, eht mrof fo yob. Nruter eht nam ton tey deyortsed.”

Bruce rolled his eyes at that one, still eleven years of age.

And Zatanna tried a few more time, rewording her magic in hopes that something would happen. Nothing worked.

“This is getting frustrating,” she said, crossing her arms. Then she had an idea. “Laever ot su eht eruc.”

And on command, Bruce felt a pressure on the palm of his right hand, writing down words like a black inked pen. _All locks but no keys, there are many layers to his walls. He thinks he's doomed, and so he'll remain, the ugly reflection in a house of mirrors. He is either failed or saved._

Zatanna pursed her lips. “The villain of the night may have be a novice,” she said, looking over the words carefully, “but he managed to get his hands on some strong magic. Sorry, Bruce, but I can't do much by force at this point.”

“Explain,” Bruce said, not liking where this was going already.

“The magic comes from within, Bruce. It's powered by the person it's affecting. That's why you feel _defenseless._ The magic in nature is not malicious but meant to help you.”

“By turning me back to a child.”

Zatanna gave him a sympathetic smile. “You've grown up to be a man with a lot of walls, B, and you try to keep as many people out as possible. But children are more open. It’s in their nature. It's why it turned you back to a child, to when you were the most defenseless.”

Bruce frowned even more. “Fix this. Find a way to reverse this. Please.”

Zatanna sighed. “I'll try, B,” she said, standing up from the bed. “I'll ask Jason and John to help. They're much better with old text than I am.”

“Thank you.”

“It's my pleasure. I'll do it in payment of that picture. But I think it's a better idea to do what the magic wants. I'm sure I'm not the only one that thinks so.”

“Don't tell anyone outside those two, Zatanna. I'll figure out how to deal with this while you research.”

The magician nodded in a small defeat. “I hope you at least try. See you soon, B. Tropelet em ot nosaJ dlooB.”

In a _poof_! Zatanna disappeared from the Manor, and Bruce was left alone, gripping the bed sheet with his inked hand. He hoped Zatanna would find another cure soon. He had been in bed for almost a week, and he missed going in patrol. He missed being out in his city and saving the world from ultimate destruction. Most of all, he missed being Batman.

Bruce got out of bed, and started to walk out to the unlit hallway. Damian and Dick were out on patrol at the moment, feeling assured when Zatanna arrived, so the Manor was empty, feeling a lot bigger than it should ever be.

He walked down the stairs, ignoring all the paintings and portraits hung up alongside it, remembering his walk through the dark. He wanted to go to the Batcave, his home away from home, but then he saw light coming from the kitchen.

Out of curiosity, he went to it, uncertain about who was there.

“Bruce, what are you doing out of bed? Did Miss Zatanna leave?”

A wave of guilt hit Bruce. He forgot Alfred was still in the Manor. He forgot about Alfred who made sure he ate something everyday and drank enough water while he was running a fever. He forgot about the man who loved him like a father, who tolerated all his moods and anger. He forgot about the only person in the world who waited for him when he dropped off the face of the Earth without a sign or sound. The butler, the closest legal relation to the Wayne family, could have sold the estate and company and lived luxuriously the rest of his life, but Alfred waited for him to come home, to him.

“Why are you here?” Bruce asked before he realized he did. _Why are you still here?_

The old butler tutted, ushering Bruce to sit by the island kitchen. Alfred gave him a cup of orange juice and continued on what he was doing. “Where else would I be?” he asked, mixing a big bowl of chocolate batter. “I live here, don't I? Unless I'm being evicted.”

Bruce shook his head. If anything, he would be the one leaving, not Alfred. “You can stay here forever, Alfred,” he said.

Alfred have him a delighted smile. “Thank you, Master Bruce, but I'm sure that's not what you mean, is it?”

Bruce looked down to his cup, shrugging. All of the sudden, he didn't want to talk anymore, but Alfred persisted. “Talk to me, Master Bruce,” he said softly, putting the bowl down. He stood in front of where his ward sat patiently. “What do you want to ask me?”

Bruce looked up, to look at his surrogate father with hesitant eyes. “Why haven't you left me yet?” he started, words spilling out. “I'm a grown man already. You don't have to stay here anymore. You can go back to England and do everything you want now. You deserve it, instead of being stuck taking care of me. It doesn't make sense at all, Alfred. You're better off leaving me, but I don't want you to go. I want you to stay because there would be an Alfred-sized hole wherever I go, but if you decide to leave one day, I won't stop you, ever.”

As he spoke, Bruce began to sob, clutching at the cup between his hands as tears filled his eyes and Alfred’s.

“Oh, Master Bruce,” the old butler breathed out, doing his best not to let his voice crack, “you certainly know how to break an old man’s heart.”

Bruce closed his eyes as Alfred wiped away his tears with gentle thumbs, a wet smile plastered on the older man’s face.

“I could never leave you,” Alfred said, chuckling a bit. “I would never leave you. You're my son, Bruce. You scare me half to death every time you dress up in that blasted costume. You frustrate me when you disregard my advice and care. You give me endless hours of worry every time you get so much as a scratch. That's why I stay, because I want to make sure myself that you're alive, that you survive everything life pushes your way. I can't say that all the pain and tears are worth it, but I wouldn't trade you for the entire world. That would make me a supervillain, and last time I checked, we all agreed that kind of occupation wouldn't fit any of us.”

Bruce let out a small laugh, opening his eyes.

“And if I left,” Alfred continued, “there would be a Bruce-sized hole wherever I go.”

Without thinking, Bruce climbed over and hugged his oldest and most dearest friend, letting his heart spill onto island top like orange juice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (This chapter was delightful to write. ^^)


	9. Scarlet

There were a few people missing, Bruce thought as he sat in his office. His fever was gone that morning, and he was well enough to be officially out of mandatory bed rest. He was sitting at his desk, looking over the pictures again. _One, two, three._ He was missing three people. Where were they? He was missing them, and he wanted to know where they were. He left a note.

He looked to the picture with his parents again. _Park Row._

He thought that he was going to break Alfred’s heart again, wandering the streets of Gotham for the first time since he woke up as an eleven year old. It was odd, walking around the city, seeing the old and the new before his eyes. It was as if he was looking through time, the past and future convergence in one presence that belonged and did not belong to him. The streets were cleaner and yet still as rough and dirty, only furnished and polished on the outside as it continued to fester and rot inside, but there was still a love for it, the unfortunate mistress of a cruel fate which had punished her for the crime of existence.

He snuck out from Wayne Manor, pacing himself carefully down the mountainous path to the city herself, managing to arrive an hour and a half later. He was tired, but he had to make good with whatever he had left before someone came to find him again. He doubt that Alfred would let him out of his sight after this, but it was a risk he had to take. He wanted to find the one who reserved about staying in the Manor. Bruce thought he might had scared that one off, and he wanted that one to come back. It felt as if he had released a bird back into the wild and wanted to know if it would come back.

At first, the city which he loved was a mesh of then and later, walking a route he pieced and glued together from memory; and then, the future started to fade away and the past remained, a mocking reminder of what could never change, save in name, _Crime Alley._ It seemed that a gray cloud positioned itself over this place, fixed like a pseudo moon forever obscuring the sun. The streets were damp and murky, parking lots appearing as lakes and lakes as parking lots. The buildings stood secure upon their foundations, but their walls and floors were broken and eaten by the years, the sounds of silence wailing from all around. There was an echo of tragedy as Bruce walked away from the light, struck by the halo of a street lamp that lit despite the early hour.

He continued to face it, and he was blinded, closing his eyes against the strain. Bruce lowered his head as he opened his eyes, facing a darker part of the world found in the alleyway between an abandoned warehouse and the back of a run down bar. He saw something, his vision still a little fuzzy, but he walked into it anyway, curious to what he found.

**tH3 WORDs oF Th3 PrOPH3t**

Those words were sprayed on the wall above, the sirens of a far away subway ringing into his ears from all around, the dead body that laid there, as cold as a winter chill. There was a bullet in between her eyes, the shock clearly engraved on her face. She was dressed poorly, a short skirt and a crop top in a neon pink color. Her shoes were missing, the indication of force on her wrist.

_Bang! Bang!_

Her small bag was next to her, the content thrown out. She had a pair of lipstick in near similar shades of red, condoms, a cracked phone, a small bottle of purple perfume, and a wallet missing. A successful robbery and one pointless casualty. Bruce thought that all his blood rushed into the pool under her, her cheap rhinestone necklace scrambled on the dirty sidewalk. She was a light brunette, a bleach job gone bad, and she had eyes like a fish. On her shoulder was a tattoo of a Calla lily in full bloom, which forced a laugh out of Bruce because it was just so damn funny, the absurdity of it all.

 _Mother, will you leave the light on? I’m sorry. I mean, Mother, will you_ **_please_ ** _leave the light on?_

When did he get so close, the tip of his shoes barely not touching the edge of the pool? When did she die? Why wasn’t he there to save her? Why couldn’t he save her? Why _didn’t_ he save her?

“Bruce? What are you doing here?” the one said.

And Bruce turned around almost like a flinch, throwing himself with such a force that he took a step back in the process, and slipped. He fell with a wet thud, the jelly like substance seeping into his nice clothes and onto his hands. Then all he saw was red, on the street, his clothes, his white socks, his hands, the mask of his nearly estranged son.

“Don’t touch me,” Bruce bit out as Jason reached out for him, his small hands trembling. “I’m dirty.”

But Jason did anyway, taking off his brown leather jacket and wrapping it around Bruce. “We have to go,” he said, picking his adoptive father up. “Demon Brat’s going to tear my ears off if I left you here.”

Bruce didn’t know where to put his hands, seeing them shake but feeling only numb and cold. Jason saw the hesitation and helped Bruce decide by placing the bloodied hands on his chest, over the red symbol of _hope,_  and everything else became a blur, carrying him off from the words written on the tenement wall.

“Bruce, I’m going to clean you up now, okay?” Jason said softly as he pulled off his helmet, revealing a face both young and old framed by jet black hair with one streak of pure white. They were in the bathroom, Bruce placed on the edge of a clean bathtub. Everything was clean and neat here, nothing like the world outside.

“Jason,” Bruce said quietly, reaching a hand to touch his son’s face, but he stopped himself. There was blood on his hands.

“Let me help you,” Jason said, taking the outreached hand and placing it on his face, not a bit bothered by the mess or being touched by Bruce. And Bruce was less resistance to do the same with his other hand, holding Jason’s face and pressing their foreheads together, adoring the sudden calmness that overtook him.

“Will you let me?” Jason tried again, placing his ungloved hands over Bruce’s to hold them gently in his grasp but not yet to pull them away. Bruce simply nodded, and Jason pulled his father's hands away to place them on his lap.

With bloodied cheeks and hands, Jason quickly pulled off his layer of kevlar protecting his body and the thick boots and socks, throwing all of the articles to the side, staining the white tiles red, but he continued as he turned on the water, making sure it was at a warm temperature for a bath. As the water ran, he slowly undressed Bruce, starting from his shoes up to the white dress shirt layer underneath a thin midnight tie.

Bruce was sitting in the middle of the bath that went up to halfway to his chest, and Jason started with his hands first with a bar of soap with the faint smell of hyssop, performing not only the act of giving it to Bruce but washing them himself. The blood washed off quicker that way, and Bruce felt cleaner, completely soaked when Jason sprayed over him with the showerhead. The blood seeped off his skin and diluted in the water, becoming a soft pink as Bruce continued to wash himself with the soap. Jason started to wash his hair with lavender scent shampoo, his fingers carefully washing his scalp.

“Close your eyes,” Jason warned, and Bruce obeyed, the spray of warm water running over him until the soap were completely washed away. “You ready to get out?”

Bruce opened his eyes again, no longer feeling numb or cold but clean and warm. He looked over his son, and Jason’s cheeks were still stained, only his hands cleaned from washing Bruce. Jason had not think to wash it away, and the water was already starting to drain. Quickly, Bruce, with the water that was left, tried to get rid as much of the stain as possible, but there wasn’t enough time before the water dried up on his hands and was fully drained, a small speck of blood remaining on Jason’s right cheek.

Jason handed Bruce a towel to dry up with, sitting the boy on top of the sink counter. “What were you doing out there?” the young man asked, drying Bruce’s hair with another towel. He sounded a bit upset, the thought of a child lost in Crime Alley. “Does anyone know you’re here?”

Bruce didn’t answer, kicking his legs a little. He was there to find Jason because he wanted to ask his son a question, about after his resurrection in the Lazarus pit. It wasn’t if Jason hated him. It wasn’t if Jason forgave him or still wanted to kill Joker. It wasn’t even if Jason was angry at him. Not anymore. It wasn’t what he wanted to ask in the first place because his first question was a selfish question. Jason died, and the first question Bruce wanted to ask was about himself.

But he didn’t want to ask it, not yet. He, selfishly, wanted Jason to ask first.

“Hey, are you listening?” Jason asked, frowning as he threw the towel in the laundry basket. “Why are you here, Bruce?”

“Do you still love me?” Bruce finally spoke, steeling himself for rejection, angry, scorn, mockery, anything but-

“Come now,” said Jason, a neutral expression on his face, “though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they are red like crimson, they shall be as wool.”

Ah. It was a start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (By far, the most fun chapter I've written.)


	10. With You

He was walking downtown Gotham dressed in a shirt a few sizes too big and shrunken pants that still went down past his ankles, hiding half of his washed shoes. Jason was walking nonchalantly beside him, hands in the pocket of his brown leather jacket. The sun was falling down the horizon, but there was still a few hours of precious daylight left.

Bruce felt lucky that Jason let him come here rather than just take him back to the Manor. He knew that Alfred and Damian would be upset with him again, but he'd be back soon. He wanted to make another stop. _Two._

“Olympus,” Jason stated when they arrived at the front of a tall building that went up many stories, a sleek black with its name signed with gold. “Out of all the places Timmy could’ve lived, he chose this and picked the highest floor. I thought Damian had the biggest ego, but I guess Tim’s well deserved.”

Bruce didn't reply, tugging at his son’s jacket sleeve as he walked into the building. “Yes,” he said, coming up to the receptionist, which showed how expensive the rent was. “We're here for Timothy Drake.”

The receptionist looked to them. “You mean Drake-Wayne, little boy?” he asked. “I'm sorry, but he restricts unexpected visitors. I haven't received a call from him.”

Jason sighed, rolling his eyes as he pulled out his phone. He made a call, and before the other side could say anything, Jason stated, “Olympus. Now.” Then he hung up.

Not a moment later, the black phone on the receptionist's desk rang. _“Hey, Mark,”_ Bruce heard, _“you can send him up.”_

“Of course, Mister Drake-Wayne,” the receptionist Mark said, “but there's also a little boy with him.”

_“. . . . Him too.”_

“Yes, sir.”

Mark put downtown the phone and pressed a button at his desk, the elevator singing at the bottom to give Jason and Bruce a lift. “Have a good night, sirs,” he said, as the two walked away.

Bruce had not yet let go of Jason’s sleeve, feeling nervous about reaching the highest floor as the elevator weighed him down. He was tempted to hide behind Jason the entire time. He was starting to wonder how scrutinizing Tim’s glances would be, Bruce waiting for him to blow up in his face. Bruce deserved it; he had always felt that Tim rarely stood up to him because he was much taller, much larger and much stronger than Tim, but now with him smaller, younger, weaker, Tim would have the chance to say what he have always wanted to say.

“So why are we here?” Jason asked, speaking to Bruce for the first time since they left Crime Alley. “Couldn't you just call Timmy?”

“I don't know,” Bruce answered. He just had the need to go see Tim himself. “I felt like he didn't want to interrupt.”

“Interrupt what?”

“Me.”

Jason hummed as some form of acknowledgement, and the elevator door dinged open to a small, empty lobby with glass walls save for the entrance wall with a white door. He walked up as if he owned the place and knocked on the wood rather than ring the bell.

The door opened. “Jay, just ring the bell,” Tim said, exasperated.

“Sure thing, Timbo,” Jason said, walking in like nobody’s business. Bruce was pulled in as he had not let go of Jason’s sleeve.

Bruce watched carefully as Tim closed the door, observing how different his son looked. He remembered a barely teenaged boy showing out of nowhere the next door over, already more brilliant that Bruce could ever be, a starry eyed kid already figuring out the world by himself.

Now Tim was older, even by only five years, and there he was, on highest floor of Olympus, the penthouse themed white and minimalistic. He was vice-CEO of Wayne Enterprise in every way but name, and he was already establishing himself well into the business world, backed and praised by Lucius himself. Out of anybody in the world, Bruce hoped that Tim would be willing to take over WE when it was time for him to step down and retire. WE may be public, but Bruce had enough influence and power to ensure that he would be one to pick his successor.

“So what are you doing here?” Tim asked, going to his neatly organized desk. By the amount of graphs, Bruce spotted, he was looking over R&D and/or company budget and profit.

“Ask Bruce, not me,” Jason said, looking down at the desk as his index finger pointed to  a hiding Bruce. “Found him in Crime Alley. He wanted to come here.”

Bruce shot out of sight behind Jason as both of his sons glanced over to him. This must have been a surprise for them, that Bruce was okay being with the two after he ran away, but to Bruce, after all that time thinking, his mind was not clouded as much anymore.

“Bruce,” Tim said slowly, not a hint of accusation or demand in his tone, “why are you here?”

Why was he here? That was a good question, seeing as he didn't have a complex answer for that except for, “I wanted to see you. That's all. I think I should watch you more often.”

Tim had a thoughtful expression on his face. “You always have cameras,” he said.

Bruce leaned a little to the side to see his son. “Not in that way, Tim,” he replied, not a bit shy but still just as cryptic. “I'll leave if you want me to.”

“No, it's fine. Stay as long as you like, but there isn't much here.”

Bruce paused for a moment, looking around the room to take everything in. There was nothing here, only the barest of furniture, as if the penthouse was always ready to go back on the market. There was a pool on the balcony, but it was covered, not even a chair sitting on its own. This wasn't a home, but Bruce could tell it was a sanctuary of some sorts for Tim. It was a place where he could be alone and not be clustered by the other parts of his life. Its mere presence was a lighthouse, and suddenly, Bruce felt like he wasn't meant to be there.

“There isn't,” Bruce then said, “but that's okay.”  

Tim gave him a small smile.

“Alright, so packaged delivered,” Jason said, pushing Bruce away by the head rudely but gently. “I'm going to go now, so take good of Tiny Tim, Bruce.”

“And where are you going exactly?” Tom asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Mars, if I'm lucky. I'll bring you back a rock.”

Tim shook his head, returning to his papers, as Jason started to head out, but Bruce had yet to let go.

“You're staying here, B,” his older son said, picking Bruce under his arms and throwing him unexpectedly onto the plush, white armchair. He dragged it, and Bruce, until it was sitting right next to Tim. “Now be good, you two.”

With Jason left, letting the door slam behind him, and Olympus was silent, Bruce sitting on the armchair facing the balcony window. “Do you want anything, Bruce?” Tim asked a little too quietly.

Bruce shook his head slowly. “I just want to stay here,” he answered, looking out into the setting horizon. _With you._

He didn't say the last part. It would make him feel too exposed, like he wasn't meant to say everything because all he should say were in short sentences and grunts. Instead, he leaned on the side Tim was at, his head resting on the arm of the chair.

“I like being here,” Bruce said, quietly. _With you._ “And I don't want to be alone right now. Thank you for letting me stay, Tim.”

Tim hummed. “And you chose here of all places?” he asked. “It's nice, yes, but it's lonely by itself.”

“But you're here, so that makes it alright.”

They were both silenced by that, unsure of what to say next. Bruce had never admit that kind of thing before, but the moment seemed to ebb away to the back of his head as he felt the sudden hit of exhaustion. He had walked almost two hours from Wayne Manor with only the clothes off his back, witnessed a crime scene at Crime Alley, and walked all the way to Downtown Gotham.

It may have been the peacefulness and the isolation of the Tim’s penthouse that made Bruce let down his guard. It may have been his son simply being with him.

He fell asleep, thinking how Tim was a lot kinder to him than he deserved.


	11. The Entire World

Bruce woke up slowly to the movement of being lifted up. The room was dim, most of the lights turned off, and Tim was yawning, stretching a bit. The sun was showing the last of its colors before disappearing beyond the horizon.

“Dick?” he mumbled, automatically letting his limbs stay limp in his eldest’s arms.

“Hi, B,” Dick replied softly. Bruce remembered that this was how he carried his son when he was smaller, more prone to exhaustion after four hours of being Robin. “You should stop leaving the Manor. You're making Alfred feel like a warden more than a butler.”

Bruce breathed slowly against Dick’s shoulder. “I left a note. What are you doing here?”

“Taking you home,” Tim answered, walking to the island kitchen at the corner of the penthouse. “I'm going in patrol in a few hours, and I'm not leaving you here while I'm doing so.”

“Are you coming too?”

Tim smiled a little. “Not now, Bruce. I'll be by the Cave for a few minutes, though. Jason will show up maybe.”

“I'll wait up for you then.”

Bruce, face resting against Dick’s shoulder, saw neither Tim’s light blush nor Dick’s smile to his younger brother.

“I'll take him home and tuck him into bed, and I'll meet up with you, okay, Tim?” Dick said quietly, the lack of background noise putting Bruce back to sleep.

“Yeah,” Tim replied softly, his presence standing behind Bruce. “I'll see you, Bruce.”

Bruce hummed. “Be careful, Timothy,” he said, finding the world a little too comfortable to be awake right now. “I worry about you.”

He felt, rather than heard, Dick, a deep rumbling that overtook his chest in repressed laughter at the expense of his younger brother. “He’s so cute when he's sleepy and expressive,” Dick cooed.

“Yeah, yeah,” Tim said, heading towards the door. He opened it. “See you in a bit.”

“See you, Tim,” Dick said, walking out with Bruce in his arms. Bruce barely heard Tim say something to him, but he waved a hand weakly to reply anyway.

He wasn't sure how long he was asleep or when he fell back asleep, but he woke up, he was in his bedroom, the bed feeling too big and the room too dark. The Manor was silent, and he was dressed in a pair of pajamas, most likely a pair of Damian’s on such short notice.

Without hesitation, he got out of bed, wanting to get away as soon as possible. He stepped into the hallway, walked gently down the stairs and headed straight to the grandfather clock. He repeated the process and opened the entrance down the staircase, the Computer illuminating the entire cave with a soft glow. There was someone down there. Was it Tim? Or Alfred?

The chair immediately swirled around when he reached the last step, his feet cold against the stone floor. For a moment, a breath caught in his lungs when he saw her. _One._ And he was filled with adoration because she was absolutely one of the most beautiful women in his life. She was strong, fast, and intelligent, despite her silent demeanor. She was a survivor, just like he was, and sadly, she admired him, wanted his praise and approval. From experience, Bruce knew that was a bad idea, an idea that may result to death because his expectations were high, quick to criticize but slow to praise. There were better options she could choose from, Barbara, Diana, Dinah, women who could be more sympathetic to her, not because they could understand better but simply because they were kind. 

His daughter deserved kindness, and he was not sure he could give it to her, not with the way he did with others.

“Cassandra,” he said, coming closer to his only daughter with eyes filled will wonder.

His daughter smiled at the sight of him, probably already knowing of the incident. “Hi, B,” she greeted, getting up so that he could hug her around the waist. She read his next move before he was even aware, looking up at her. She returned the affection, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. “Okay?”

“Yes,” Bruce breathed out. “Why are you still here?”

Cassandra pointed up to the computer, showing many camera views of Gotham. One had a view of Dick as Batman and Damian as Robin interrupting a gang fight, and another had Tim as Red Robin watching over a small wedding gathering. “Babysitting,” she answered with a laugh, dragging them both to the floor. “You won’t escape me.”

Bruce shivered at the sudden contact with the metal plating, but he was feeling too warm to notice as Cassandra continued to embrace her father. “You’re small, like Damian,” she commented, “but less annoyed. Should stay like this forever.”

He didn’t say anything, simply pressing himself closer in need of comfort.

“Not okay, Bruce,” she then stated, catching him. “You're thinking too much. Talk.”

“I wish you could've met Mom,” Bruce told her, laying on the cold metal floor of the Cave. “She would have loved you just like I do. No, she'd love you more than I ever could because she had a big heart and you deserve a mother who loves you for you.”

Cassandra shushed him, her brown eyes twinkling. “Me too, B,” she said, her cheek against the top of her father’s head. “Family.”

“I wish you could've met Dad too. He would've bought you the entire world.”

Cassandra giggled. “Not that rich.”

“He would've tried. He was a smart man. He could've planned world domination while traveling the world before marrying Mom.”

“Tell me about him. About her. Tell me about family.”

Bruce took a moment. “I wish they were alive, so they could've met their grandsons too. They would spoil the boys. Tim would help Mom with WE, and Dad would have taught Damian because I think Damian would do well as a veterinarian. And they would've adored Dick and Jason just because they make me happy.”

“Me too. I love my brothers. And Alfred?”

Bruce kind of laughed. “By 75, if he ever tells us how old he is, they would have made him retire and start serving him. Mom and Dad loved Alfred. They were his friends too. I don't think I thought about that when they . . . ”

“When they died.”

“Yes. He cared about them just as much as I do, probably even more because he knew them longer. One day, he was working for two wonderful people; the next, he's taking over the guardianship of his dead friends’ son.”

“His son too. You're his son too.”

“And I'm grateful because I would've been alone. Do you think I'm cruel, Cassandra? While I was on this path towards justice, I didn't bother to look back to the people who were with me. I'm trouble.”

“Mean. Ass. But not cruel. You love kids. So kind to them. You're sorry when they suffer. I see it.”

“I wonder how things would be different if they didn't die.”

“Nobody knows, but I know. Know that you wouldn't be Batman. Gotham without hope. Dick and Jason fatherless orphans. Tim lonely. Damian never existing. I wouldn't be stopped. I miss them too Bruce. Nothing would be the same, but you'd be happy.”

“I . . . I'm happy now.”

Cassandra embraced her father tighter, smiling against the top of his head. “Me too. There is pain, but there is love. And forgiveness. And _love._ One must imagine Sisyphus happy.”

Bruce let out a wet laugh. “Who taught you that?”

“No one. I read and failed a lot. Took too long, but I did it.”

And Bruce felt pride and fortunate. He told her.

“For you, the entire world.”


	12. Heart

When he woke up again, he was back in bed, and everything felt like a dream. The sky was lit by morning light, his bed was large, but not as big anymore, less empty with his youngest sleeping next to him. They weren't holding each other anymore, Bruce was actually wrapped around Damian, returned to his original size. There was shreds of the pajamas sticking to his skin, outgrown them literally overnight.

Bruce paused to enjoy the moment, smiling softly against his son’s skin. The air smelled like the sun. “Precious,” he whispered softly, loving the perfection.

Damian stirred, roused by his father’s deep baritone. He opened his blue eyes, blinking away his sleep. “Morning, Father,” his youngest said quietly. “You've returned to your natural state. Naked.”

Bruce laughed lightly. “Sorry. I didn't account for my size when I grew up.”

“I'll see if Pennyworth’s done with making breakfast while you change,” Damian said, sitting up. He stepped off the bed, the sunlight hitting his face as of to grace the world of him. “Do hurry, Father. I'll wake everyone else on the way. They'll be glad that the magic wore off.”

Bruce watched happily as Damian walked out of the master bedroom. He stayed in bed another minute or two, and he also got out of bed, wrapping the bedsheet around his waist as he walked towards the balcony. He stumbled along the way, needing to get used to being large and tall again. He took in one deep breath and closed his eyes, giving himself a moment. 

Bruce knew he hadn't changed completely. Neither could he promise things would be better between him and those around him, but he was lighter, as if Hercules was lifting up the sky Atlas was holding and stayed, carrying the weight of the world with the Titan. Just one step at a time, he told himself. Just one step at a time. There was not enough time or earth, but there was enough heart to go around. Always had been. 


End file.
